


Wandering Ships

by misato



Category: Midsummer Night's Dream - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misato/pseuds/misato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their trysts are made up of mere heated glances and seemingly innocent touches, of suggestive grins and of dark words that play sweet and syrupy over his tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wandering Ships

The silver chalice he clutches in his fist provides him with enough leeway to allow him into the presence of his Lady the Queen Titania, but her lips twitch with disdain when he kneels, blinking at the mossy floor and waiting solemnly for recognition.

Solemnity is not one of Puck’s most prominent attributes, but Oberon has told him, no, commanded him to remain quiet and controlled when he kneels before her throne, and thus he does, for his Lord’s sake only. Puck loves getting himself into trouble, and he even more adores dragging others into it, but he’s gotten Oberon into enough as it is, and there is no faerie in the land who would dare cross him twice.

Titania despises him, despises them both, thinks him a lowly being of clumsy magic and inelegant form. Puck prides himself in this, for she has all the markers of jealousy and reproach, and therefore she must know (because of the way she carefully averts her gaze, because of the way she has distanced herself), and therefore Oberon must be obvious (despite his desperate attempts of pretense, despite his public claims he does not love Puck).

There is not much to know, and there is not much to be obvious about, for their trysts are made up of mere heated glances and seemingly innocent touches, of suggestive grins and of dark words that play sweet and syrupy over his tongue.

He watches a single dewdrop tremble on a fallen leaf, listens to the the flitting of her young maidservants, counts the seconds within the minutes until he’s left restless and wanting.

Titania clears her throat in a regal sort of way, and he leaps up immediately, a slight hint of a smirk playing across his face, stalks towards Oberon, drapes himself over the glinting chair in a way that he knows is too overdramatic.

“My Puck,” Oberon says, his voice composed and edged with tension.

He hears Titania exhale slowly, an attempt at restraining a sob - she knows, of course, that to her King, at least, the pretense of royalty is nothing more than a charade, a professional marriage. Oberon knows no love for her, and to hear Puck referred to as his is practically humiliation before her own court. But Puck’s shallow heart is made from naught but wind and storm and shadow, and there stays no room in that whirlwind for sympathetic notions towards a woman who has most certainly wished upon his death.

And oh, his mouth is suddenly all too close to the other man’s face; a soft breath ghosts testingly over Oberon’s prominent cheekbone, and he watches that strong jaw clench in frustration, but there is no sign of protest.

“The chalice you requested, my Lord.”

His skill for imitating voices is not lost on mere mischief; he has heard words of allurement fall from the lips of many men, and he can recreate their tones effortlessly. It’s hardly difficult to deliberately let his voice swing low at the end as he’s heard hundreds do, a calculated sort of seduction for someone so reckless. The mindless, formal words scrape roughly through the air in a heavy moan, and he feels the other man tense beside him.

Oberon’s expression stays unchanged, but his eyes are steely and black, his pupils blown and his sharpened gaze blazing with fire as if he’d like nothing more than to slam Puck against the nearest surface and have his way with him. He nods ever-so-slightly, a noncommittal sort of acknowledgement that outwardly appears dismissive, but Puck decides that it is to conceal the fact that his voice has gone hoarse with arousal.

Puck’s willful stare meets his firmly, and those dark eyes soften, if only for a moment.

He accepts the chalice, takes it carefully from his outstretched hand, and despite the precaution, his fingers skim accidently over Puck’s wrist, tracing softly over blueish veins, and Oberon nearly forgets to contain his shiver.

Titania is pointedly staring straight ahead, her hands folded primly on her lap and her hair tumbling glossily over her back. Her smile is gentle and proper as always, but her lips are tight and her eyes are cold, lifeless - no longer glimmering with the same warmth he’s seen in the past. It’s a silent argument between the two, worse than the likes of what they’d had before the midsummer travesties, and yet it’s over nothing more than implication, over fiery eyes and caught wrists, over teasing formalities repeated a thousand times before.

Their eyes are locked in a heavy embrace; Puck does not dare break the silent spell, but he can see every slight movement, every breaking point in Oberon’s charade. He is more of a genius than he lets on, they both know. He can feel the other’s gaze hot and ravaging across his collarbone, over his thighs, upon his mouth, wishes it was instead the King’s lips which wandered so freely.

“Dismissed,” Oberon says through gritted teeth, tearing his eyes from the spirit’s figure and trying to sound bored, but his voice is choked.

Puck laughs, spins backwards, absentmindedly sets a cluster of fallen leaves on fire, exciting the minor fairies that wander sweetly around Titania, making them tumble backwards and crumple their gauzey wings.

He swallows hard before focusing on the tug of magic, and he can feel Oberon watching his throat bob as he does so; he ignores it, for now, harnessing shadows into his fingertips and feeling his physical form grow ethereal in the dark wind.

“Farewell, my Lord,” he calls, and as an afterthought, he blows a kiss to Oberon before he fades into the shadows.

-

Puck’s half-asleep as the point of dusk breaks, his somnolent form wrapped in a hazy layer of shadow and curled within an obscured grove, one bound by Oberon’s domain. It’s positioned near a particular village, one of his favourites to mess with simply because of the sincere gullibility of its inhabitants, and so he often takes refuge within the secluded circle of trees.

He’s drifting lazily between stages of consciousness when something jars him sharply into reality - a hand tightly gripping his shoulder and pinning him fast against the earth, a voice hissing words that seem near-incomprehensible to his drowsy ears. Puck reflexively summons something of the weaker sort, but the charms slip clumsily from his grasp, as if he’s suffocating, caught in a vacuum of numbness.

He’s about to resort to weak physical struggle when his mind finally registers the owner of the voice.

“Zounds, Oberon,” he mumbles, but really, he’s savouring the feeling of the other’s mouth whispering heatedly into his ear about, well, he’s still quite unsure - something about Puck’s dangerous level of irrationality and lack of self control.

Oberon tangles a rough hand into Puck’s already-mussed hair, leaning in far too close and staring hard into his listless eyes.

“Did I not tell thee to remain quiet and controlled?”

“Aye,” Puck grins. “You did, Lord.”

“And didst thou listen?

“Aye. I heard you well.”

It’s not the proper response, but wit is his only defense, and if he wasn’t so intent on forcing himself to focus on clever words and loopholes, he’s certain he’d be unable to stop himself from pressing their mouths warmly together.

“And didst thou obey?”

“Aye,” Puck says. “I spoke softly, if you recall, My Lord.”

He lets his voice drop once more in a flawless imitation of his previous tone, and he feels Oberon’s entire body tremble upon his own.

“And wert thou controlled?” His voice is trying far too hard to remain steady, and it almost dares to waver.

He’s grown even closer now, if possible, and Puck feels himself gasp.

He realises that one should most likely expect features like these from the King of Fairies, but he swears those eyelashes are the longest he’s ever seen, those lips the softest and the fullest and oh, so unbearably close to him, nearly brushing Puck’s own. He lets their sweet breaths mingle; Oberon’s floods his senses with the scent of new leaves turning and of clear spring water and rose petals; if he leaned closer, he’s certain that the other would taste exactly like the early mornings of spring, sweet and warm and intoxicating.

"Aye," he murmurs. "Had I not been, I would have done this."

Puck brushes their lips together tentatively, catching Oberon’s mouth in a gentle kiss, and the other man’s grip loosens in surprise, relaxed fingers trailing accidentally through tousled hair. When Oberon doesn’t move against him willingly, he breaks the embrace, pulling away only to meet the softest gaze which has ever graced itself upon those features - and in a mere moment, it turns stormy.

Puck nearly flees, concealing his figure within the depths of the midnight shadows, escaping in a shameful dash across every fragile corner of the earth until his lips burn from the harshness of the whipping wind and his eyes are only fit for the dimness of shady nights.

He opens his mouth, though he knows not what to say - perhaps a half-hearted apology, or an explanation; certainly, he can maneuver his way out of any dreadful situation and this one should not be so different.

“My Lord,” he says apprehensively, not a hint of seduction involved, but his shaken words are cut off by a slick mouth sliding firmly against his, and Oberon is everywhere all of a sudden, licking hotly into his mouth, biting at his lower lip with fervor, and Puck can’t help but moan in surprise.

He tastes of sweetened spring air, but he also tastes of darkness, of thunderclaps roaring in the distance and flashes of lightning streaking across an inky sky; he is a wildfire searing through a thicket of honeysuckle, and it’s more than merely addicting.

It’s all too much, the way his teeth tease over his collarbone, biting sharply at his neck and marking him up with darkened bruises.

“My Puck,” Oberon mutters, and Puck’s eyelids flutter shut; he knows Oberon can heal them at a single touch, but he hopes, prays that he won't, that he'll leave them there nevertheless, so that Titania and her attendants and the entire world will look upon and know whom he belongs to.

Puck’s heartbeat pulses like water, a tide rolling into his ghostly veins and washing in waves over his tightened wrists; his breath is erratic and unsteady, a tumultuous windstorm; his eyes are glazed over, clouded with rough arousal; he is a tempestuous hurricane of uncertain gasps and raging need.

“My Lord,” Puck moans, and that’s no imitation, it’s pure, raw need, and Oberon obliges him.

They’ve locked themselves in a tight embrace, indulging in the satiny feel of rough, directionless touches through fabric; it’s all breathy whispers and intensified kisses from there. It’s overly messy, but Oberon’s breath lingers hot and damp upon his skin, gasping against his cheekbone and kissing over his shoulder.

“ _Robin_ ,” he whispers, like a prayer, and they’re both absolutely finished at that point, a disharmony of moans echoing in the night air.

After it’s over, Oberon stays, arms wrapped tight around Puck’s lithe figure, pressing light kisses to the base of his neck and basking in post-coital drowsiness as they drift off like wandering ships after a seastorm.


End file.
